The Labyrinth of Zuthath was a disappointment at first. It was a huddle of grey stone, crumbling like rotted teeth against receding gum. But as Ianc stepped across the threshold, the world tilted. The heat of the city vanished, replaced by a draft so cold it turned his breath to mist. The air pressed against his skin, smelling of wet slate and the cloying, sickly sweetness of berry vines that throbbed with a rhythmic, golden light.
He ran a hand over the stone. Back home, rock was hard, honest, and dead. Here, the grain felt alive. His calloused hunter’s fingers caught on the etched sigils of Great Houses, now smoothed by time and suppressed by the Hallow Church. These were the scars of history, hidden away where the sun couldn’t reach them.
Panel of wall after panel, they told many stories. At the crossroads, he hesitated. To the right, the air smelled of rusted iron beneath a sign that said, the history of the Inquisitions. To the left, the scent was of dusty, vanilla smell of fresh parchment, the Great Unification. This explained the rise of the Hierophant. He turned left; he didn’t need more iron in his life. He felt the weight of a thousand unseen eyes, of the Maguses of the city, watching his choice from their gilded towers. It wasn’t just a feeling, it was real. They were watching him from the Worldly Sphere for his choice.
The murals began to move in the corner of his normal sight. Then the thread of magic followed, painting the glory of Sol in the story of the Descent. A slaughter first, then a miracle happened that savored that rest of the Solens. Sixteen Scions burned to ash to call down the Second Sun. He stopped before a panel of a woman—the Queen of Thorns. Her face was a tattered cloak, but her eyes were twin rubies that seemed to track his heartbeat. Beside her stood a skeleton, taller than the rest, with jade eyes that mirrored the Archlich green flames. A cold shiver, sharper than the Labyrinth air, raced down his spine. Was this the same lich who spirited Mirari away?
The queen fought the Second Sun with her thorns of darkness. In her demise, she left a hole so vast it dented the earth. The explosion that ended her melted mountain into a pan-like basin. Amidst all that, Tietra Saintinas emerged, the First Hierophant of the Hallow Church. His gaze was expressed in the golden blaze of topaz, staring at a band of people fleeing the searing heat. One of them was wearing a weirdly high headdress.
The next panel switched into a castle between two ridges. A girl was holding dear on a seed. Behind the Hierophant stood an army of templars. Beneath him, the man with the awkwardly high headdress encircled by vines knelt. Caladryn Dea, Ianc thought. This was the treaty the Umbrite talked about. This was the exchange for their independence.
The path ended abruptly. The golden vines died, replaced by Ashenvines that burst from the cracks like petrified smoke. Before Ianc could draw a breath, they struck. A jagged, electric shock surged through him, tasting his Solfire like a predator licking its lips. Ianc lunged for his knife, but the vines yanked his feet out from under him. The stone floor turned to liquid. He plummeted into the earth, dirt packing into his nostrils and mouth, choking back a scream.
He landed with a violent jolt. Face-first in the loam, the taste of copper and grit on his tongue. He stayed still, muscles coiled. Directly in front of his eyes stood a pair of boots—iron-shod, scarred by a thousand miles of hard travel, pointed like daggers. He looked up, following the vines that coiled like snakes up the man’s legs to the Prune Pontiff’s mask. “Where am I?” He spat a glob of mud.
“Where we can talk without ears in the walls,” the Prune Pontiff said. His voice sounded like dry leaves skittering over a grave. He reached out and helped Ianc to his feet.
Ianc glanced around. The space was concealed within arch walls and forgotten trees. Light leaked through the cracks, only enough to stop it from complete darkness. “Why all this secrecy?” He saw a small pond behind the Pontiff. “This looks like an inner sanctum of a Necrai priest.”
“Indeed.” Soren peeled back his gauntlets. The tattoos on his arms weren’t ink; they were living shadows that pulsed in sync with the vines that had just dragged Ianc underground. “I’m Soren Zuthath, last priest of the old world.”
“You’re the man from the mural,” Ianc whispered, his mind racing.
“Smart kid.”
Ianc’s brow furrowed. “Impossible. You are five hundred years old.”
“I am a man who has watched everyone he loves turn to dust while I became a battery for the Church’s miracles,” Soren said. His grey eyes dimmed as his tattoos glowed. This time, something glistened underneath, Lymph-metal’s dust. “Tietra put me in chains like everyone else. He needed my arcane knowledge to heal wounds so he could create the miracle of the Hallow Church.”
Ianc traced Soren’s winter hair, then fixed his gaze at the Pontiff’s sorrowful grey eyes. “I thought the Hierophant is the oldest of them all.”
“He is the oldest of the Solens. I’m the oldest Necrai who hadn’t become liches of the queen’s army.” Soren’s chiseled jaw twitched. “Caladryn Dea people are the descendants of the friends I held most dear. And you saved them. I thank you from my deepest gratitude.”
Ianc connected the dot. “So you’re the reason Tiet–the Hierophant changed his mind and didn’t execute me on sight.”
Soren gave a small, weary smile. “You can say his name here. There’s no need to pretend.”
Ianc took a step back, his hand instinctively going to his chest where the black mark lay hidden. Soren wanted to break free, and his mark might be the key. “So what’s the point of pulling me here? You want something from me and couldn’t risk it being known to anyone.”
“Indeed,” Soren replied, his tone growing serious once more. “I seek the seed of the Aei tree. I sensed it the moment you entered Lys Royeaux.”
Ianc retreated a few steps. “What if I don’t give it to you?” His Solfire flared brighter, a silent challenge. He would test his new power.
“I’m the only one left in this world,” Soren’s voice was firm, but not unkind, “Who can sprout it.” He snapped his fingers and the vines shot out from his sleeves. They formed into a huge shield, almost a man’s height.
Ianc struck with a fireball first. Then he lunged, flaming sword slicing down. Both attacks bounced off the Pontiff’s defense; he was knocked back, sword flying out of grip.
Soren didn’t even flinch; he didn’t pursue either, just stood motionless. “You need your bow to hurt me. That weapon could hurt both worlds.”
“You know I can’t win here,” Ianc said, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
“You can’t win anywhere,” Soren stated plainly. “The mark gives you Solfire, also a hidden darkness.”
Ianc nodded. “I need a remedy for my loss.” He pointed at his mark. His other hand held the Aei seed aloft.
Soren reached for it. As he touched the seed, Ianc grabbed it, pulling the Pontiff’s face equal to his.
“Quid pro quo, Soren.”
The Pontiff avoided eye contact. “Once a Sacrosanct gives away their divine Spark, they die. Your cure is someone else’s funeral.”
Ianc looked at the soft green pulse of the seed between the cracks of their fingers. He thought of his life as a hunter, a man who survived by knowing when to cut his losses. “No one is going to die for me,” he said, his voice hardening. “But I won’t be a puppet for the Church either. Take it.”
“Thank you,” Soren said, a flicker of relief in his eyes.
As if on cue, the hazy, cavernous space around them dispersed like smoke. The air, once thick with the scent of damp earth, now smelled of dew and fresh-cut grass. The colors returned to the world, and Ianc was standing at the heart of the Labyrinth. The stone walls were gone, replaced by manicured shrubs.
He looked around, disoriented. “What should we call this tree?”
“Aeipneuma,” Soren replied, the last word echoing in the air. “The last hope of the Aeivory’s spirit.”
The world dissolved into a blur of green and grey. When it solidified, Ianc was striding through the gates of his own estate, the name Aeipneuma still echoing in his mind. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the man staring back. What about my pneuma? What hope did his own pneuma have to survive, with Mirari’s darkness now entwined with his core? The City of Light faced not a schism, but a great prune. He could sense it in the air. Every side had their plan in motion and he did not even grasp the true scale yet. He was just a man, an ambitious hunter. “An easy hunt is always a trap,” he muttered. “Tryn!” he barked.
The butler appeared, head bowed in that practiced, terrified tilt. “My lord?”
“Jerky and a map. I’m visiting Lady deMolay.”
While the butler was away with preparation, Ianc cleaned himself and shaved his subtle beard. Still handsome, that was Abby’s opinion after he lost his left eye.
Tryn came back with the food but without the map. “My lord, lady deMolay was waiting for you at the guesting room. She’s just arrived.”
“Coincidentally convenient.” He gnawed at the jerky immediately. His tongue expected the gamey, salt-crusted deer jerky of the mountains. Instead, it was rich, spiced, and disturbingly soft. It tasted like a lie. It tasted like the city.
Clementine was waiting downstairs, her armor polished to a mirror finish. She looked up at him, her stern gaze softening for a fraction of a second as she took in his new, reconstructed frame.
“Now the Inquisitor waits for the Herald,” she said. “What’s with that smile, Ianc? Never mind. I need your help.”
“The Iron Maiden needs a favor?” Ianc teased, though his eyes remained sharp, searching her for a hidden dagger.
“Yes, regarding the city’s safety.” She pulled a chair beneath the table out and sat down then signaled Tryn to pour her a cup of tea. “Ten years’ worth of Ishchoir had been compromised.”
Ianc also took a sip of tea to wash down the last taste of biltong inside his mouth. “But why are you helping the Church? You’re a Magus’s daughter.”
“I’m an Anointed Inquisitor first.” She hesitated for a moment, then signaled Tryn to leave them. “Before my father does the deed, I will not betray what I’ve achieved on my own.”
Ianc swallowed hard at her confirmation. “The Anointed? Please indulge me.” He changed the subject, steering away from the task at hand because he felt like he would never have a chance to get to know Clementine better.
Cley slouched, a rare sight. “You spent a night wrapped in burlap and velvet bean leaves, praying until the poison felt like a blessing.” She shuddered as if relieving the moments. “I let them torture and heal me until my nerves forgot how to scream. Then, I emerged as the iron maiden.”
“You are something, aren’t you?” He quirked a brow. “What about the scars you’ve shown me before?”
“It was to prepare me for the Grand Inquisitor.” She threw three grapes into her mouth. “The pain test requires you to go through the torture of the Quaeso Chapel.”
Ianc leaned back now and shook his head. “So you’re not just tough, but a fucking masochist?” She was forged in a fire as dark as his own.
“That’s why I didn’t torture you when we first met.” She shrugged. “One shalt not dump what they don’t like on others.”
It was the first time he saw her smile that wide. “And after the Grand Inquisitor, how long is the climb towards the Prune Pontiff?” he asked, knowing that Cle was at ease.
“Never. Soren Zuthath had been the Prune Pontiff since the beginning of the Church.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I must compete with three thousand High Inquisitors to climb the Grand Inquisitor rank.”
“So that’s the entire army the Church has” —Ianc mumbled while calculating the numbers— “Twenty thousand against a hundred thousand templars of the Magisterium?”
“Closer to six on four in the Church’s favor,” Cley said. She shifted her posture, touching her chin with a raised brow. “The Quaeso Chapel held the supply chains of Ishchoir. It would turn most of the templars away from the Magisterium.”
Ianc also touched his chin. “That’s why I’m the most fit to investigate since I wasn’t declared to either party.”
“You are learning fast.” Cley nodded. “Come, they are here.”
As they stepped onto the porch, Campa, Abby, and Rahorh were already waiting, their gear gleaming in the artificial light of the Second Sun.
Ianc felt the familiar thrill of the hunt settle in his chest. The politics were a labyrinth he couldn’t navigate, but a thief? A thief was a trail he could follow. He smiled at the sight of his trusted friend. “I’m back to being a scapegoat, eh? Lead the way, Lady deMolay. Let’s see what the rats are hiding in the cellar.”
Cley snorted. “Still, I need to brief you on our mission–”
“Let me guess first,” Ianc interrupted. “We storm the merchant guild and search every warehouse in the city?”
“Good guess.” Cley stood up and beckoned Ianc to follow her. “The Merchant Guild, the Stonemasons, the Brotherhood of Craftsmanship, then the stonemason associations.”
He shrugged. The archlich needed those stones and he was investigating the mysterious disappearance of them. Coincidentally convenient.
"I became a battery
for the Church's miracles."
Five hundred years
of being useful
to something
that never asked
what it cost him.
That is not service.
That is consumption
with a holy name.
— AËLA
Thank you AELA, you are the best!!!! 🙏 🖤